


I Think Your Horse Just Died

by Dogwood



Series: More Than Most [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Flirting, The Forbidden Oasis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:22:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5859604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogwood/pseuds/Dogwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A change of travel plans means that Lavellan needs to ride double with Dorian. Solas' ears are unintentionally burning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

On their final night at the Forbidden Oasis Lavellan's borrowed horse had died without warning. Not due to any act of violence or mistreatment, it had just, as Varric put it, "had enough bullshit" and dropped dead where it stood at the edge of camp.

Which was sad enough on its own, but also caused a snag in their travel plans the following morning. 

They were due back at Skyhold in less than a week's time, so in the interests of speed and practicality they all settled on Lavellan riding double, at least to Orlais. From there, with any luck, they could procure another, less death-prone horse. 

The party of four left the oasis after a light breakfast, traveling as fast as sense would permit. Every few hours of their journey Lavellan climbed down from one saddle and into another, settling in front of (or in Varric's case, behind) its current rider, parceling out the burden of two riders for the patient animals. 

No one seemed to object, and they were all very accommodating, but every time she dismounted the dappled grey that Solas had taken to traveling with she found herself just a little disappointed. For a time she would have to forgo the poetic rhythm of his storytelling, the warmth of his breath at her neck, the feel of his subtle smile as he pressed against her hair.

As they picked their way through a rocky region half a day's ride from the oasis Lavellan sat astride Dorian's large chestnut courser - a steed that was just a shade too large for her to ride comfortably, but there was nothing to be done about it. Not for the first time, she shifted and twisted in place in an attempt to relieve her sore legs, her aching back.

Dorian whistled absently behind her, an unfamiliar tune, letting the scenery pass by without comment.

Mostly without comment.

"I came across something in a book last week and meant to ask - Fen'Harel's teeth, is that a real thing among the Dalish?"

She paused. Dorian's questions were always well-intentioned, but on some level spoke of a lack of familiarity with her people, an othering that he seemed to be unaware of. 

"It's... hard to say. My clan has never done it, but that's not to say others haven't. There are clans that push outsiders from their lands - sometimes violently - but it could be just a threat meant to frighten off humans before they come too close."

"This is the thing with the nails in the pants?" Varric turned in his saddle, his black horse stepping lightly just ahead of them.

"It's the pants thing, yes." Of course it was the really salacious rumours about her people that made the rounds. What else had they heard? "I doubt it's real, but at this point I'm willing to give everything I hear a chance."

"It's certainly creative, I'll give it that," Dorian sounded almost pleased at the notion. 

"We - my clan - did have a game called Fen'Harel's eyes, but that was something entirely different."

She didn't elaborate, and the rhythm of the horse's hooves on stone and the gentle breeze through the shrubs soon filled the silence. 

"When they write, as they most certainly won't, please tell my mother I died of suspense."

Varric snorted. 

Lavellan glanced to Solas, just behind them, seeming for all the world like he wasn't paying attention. Which meant that he almost certainly was. She wasn't especially keen on dwelling on Dalish matters in his presence - they had settled into a peaceful tolerance of one another's views - but it was nice to reflect on her family for a time.

"It's a game you play over the fire with your friends. You'd say, 'While in the woods I', and then mention something you've done, the more outlandish or impressive the better, and the person next to you has the option to call your bluff."

"For example, Dorian." She peered over her shoulder. "You might say, 'while in the woods I defeated an ancient Tevinter magister, throttling him with my bare hands', and I would keep silent if I believed you, or if I didn't, I'd say, 'he sees you'. If you were telling the truth, as you would be in this case, I would be out and the next person would take a turn until there was only one truthful person remaining."

"I see! So this is, what, a children's game?"

"It is, but adults play it from time to time. Mostly when heavy drinking is involved. And the boasts are little more.." She licked her lips, mulling over the phrasing in the common tongue. "Romantic in nature."

Dorian's sudden, delighted laugh echoed off the nearby boulders.

"While in the woods I rolled your sister, is that right?"

"Or she rolled you."

"This seems terribly unwise. Doesn't it result in pummelings?" 

"More or less." 

"I'm beginning to think you Dalish aren't all that bad." 

Lavellan laughed. "How generous!" Behind her, the grey horse nickered. 

"Is this not horribly blasphemous? I was under the impression your people were hiding from him, yes?"

"It's not something you play around a keeper," she admitted.

"We'll have to try a round of it when we're back home. I'm quite certain Bull will win, but the obscene amounts of wine consumption I'm sure I can manage."

They fell again into an easy silence, broken some time later by the appreciative smacks she gave to Dorian's horse. "Ma serannas, girl." It was time to switch. They paused as she slid from his courser, who turned immediately to the nearest shrub and began stripping it of its leaves. It must've found them distasteful, for a moment later the graceful beast opened its mouth and let the chewed remnants fall to the ground.

"After my own heart," Dorian noted.

Lavellan stepped to Solas' grey strider, a small, elegant creature bred for distance, and accepted his proffered hand. She climbed in front, Solas shifting back to to make space before gathering the leather reins in hand. Unlike Dorian, who was content to let her steer, Solas made no move to hand over the reins. 

"Thank you, that's very kind of you," she said as she took them gently from him. Surprised, it took him a moment to decide what to do with his hands, finally settling on resting them on her hips. A not unpleasant solution for either party.

"Did you often win when you played?" They started along the trail again, his voice calm and low, in sharp contrast to Dorian's upbeat whistling.

So he had been listening to the conversation.

"I lost almost every time. And everything I hear about the Dalish these days is... it shoots so wide of the mark."

"People create their own truths when no one is around to correct them." 

"I wish they wouldn't."

"It cannot be helped," he said, and pressed a light kiss to the back of her ear, out of sight of the others. "I imagine you'll be very little fun to play with in the future - few could claim what you can now."

She turned to fix him with a smile, then thought better of it and tilted her head to return his kiss.

"What a wonderful wet blanket you are, vhenan." She kissed him again, then turned back to the road, his quiet laughter in her ear as they rode.


	2. While In The Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric, Dorian, Solas and Lavellan play a Dalish drinking game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to those who left comments on the first part suggesting they actually play the game. :)

As dusk set over the wild edges of Orlais the small, stiff, sleepy party of four came across the remnants of a forgotten watchtower, part of a larger structure that had long since fallen in on itself.

The stone stairs remained in tact, however, the top lookout still sound, and when Dorian suggested they make camp on the battlements none had argued. It was a clear night, and promised to stay that way. The buzzing insects of early spring had receded with the snow melt, and when the bedrolls were laid out and a fire set in an abandoned brazier the effect was quite cozy.

Far below them at the base of the small tower a hobbled horse snorted and crickets chirped their evening greetings.

"I have something in my bag - a little something I picked up in the last town. Care to guess?" They had barely been in camp ten minutes and Dorian was already pleased with himself.

"You managed to take one of their pitchforks after they heard you were from Tevinter," said Varric, reaching back to retie his hair.

"Something even better!"

Dorian lifted two bottles of sack mead from his pack and set them on the stone floor in front of him. After dusting off his hands, he held them out for the expected applause.

"You thought I was joking when I said we would play your folksy Dalish game, didn't you? You thought, 'this is another of Dorian's wonderful flights of fancy'. You thought quite wrong."

Varric plucked a bottle from the stones and squinted through the glass, the light from the fire flickering along the surface. Seemingly satisfied, he dug his thick fingers into the cork and pulled it out with a round pop. After a tentative sniff, he lifted his brows. "Not bad. There are worse ways to go blind."

"How about you, Solas? I've yet to see you truly, irresponsibly sotted and I'll wager it's a fascinating sight. I'll even hold your hair for you."

"Thank you, Dorian, but I believe I'll pass."

She would've been surprised if he'd accepted, but Lavellan tended to agree with Dorian - it would be fascinating.

"More's the pity, but we can make due with Andraste's favourite daughter."

Lavellan, in the process of removing her wrist wraps, looked up. "You want me to play?"

"Of course!" Varric sat himself on his bedroll, legs stretched in front. "You and your cadaver of a horse got us into this mess, after all."

***********

Lavellan's cheeks were hot to the touch, and there was a numbness to her fingers when she accepted the nearly empty bottle from Varric. They were several rounds in, and the only pattern to emerge from the game so far was that they were all incorrigible liars.

Dorian had claimed that, as a child, he'd been possessed by a charm spirit that had never seen fit to leave, Varric that he was once writer in residence at the University of Orlais, and Lavellan that she was a high ranking member of the Antivan Crows, hence her real reason for spying at the conclave.

Through it all Solas had sat to the side, writing in a small, leather bound book, glancing up only rarely and speaking only when spoken to. He'd since finished his notes and was blowing the ink dry, his gaze lifting to the happy party surrounding him.

"It was the Inquisitor's turn," he said - a response to Varric's literal head scratching.

"Oh, it was,' Lavellan said, and part of her brain - the responsible part - could detect a hint of a slur coming on. She cleared her throat.

"While in the woods I poisoned the Margrave of Ansburg. She survived, but only just, and I was never caught."

Dorian pursed his lips, pointed in her direction, then pulled his hand back and pressed a fist to his mouth. "That... hm. I could almost believe that."

"There's no way. You got me with the thing about the giant, but this one's total bullshit," said Varric, ignoring the rules of the game and abandoning all reference to elven gods.

"So that's a true and a false?" Lavellan said, pointing to Dorian and Varric in turn. Each nodded in reply.

She leaned back against the wall of the battlement, drawing out the moment for as long as she could.

"...It's true, though I was quite small. Her entourage passed our camp and she made a show of trading with us as a sign of good will towards the elves. I'd been learning to forage and had picked the wrong berries, and she accepted them right out of my hands."

"We heard days later that she was near death, that one of her own coterie had attempted to murder her, but the blue skin around the eyes, the shortness of breath - I knew immediately what had happened."

"And you never said anything?" Dorian leaned forward, taking the bottle from her to finish the dredges.

"No, though I did spend two days sick to my stomach from nerves."

"The repercussions would be dire for any elf to admit to such a thing, even as a child," Solas said from just outside the fire light. "A hard lesson to learn."

"Hm. You're too good at this," said Varric, moving the location of the scratching to his furry chest.

"Let's say we tie," Dorian agreed. "We're all morally deficient and the wolf eats us all alive as punishment."

"He just tricks you," she clarified, leaning back against her saddle bag.

"Then the wolf dooms us all to delightfully ironic endings." Dorian gave the bottle one last look, then flung it backwards into the night sky. "All in all a rousing success."

***********

She lay on her side, her arm a pillow beneath her head, and let her gaze linger on Solas' hands as he settled into his bedroll next to her.

"The boast about the Dwarven ruin - was there any truth to it?" He said, his head finding place on his rolled saddle blanket.

Her eyes were barely open, her voice scarcely a whisper. "You'll never know, vhenan."

His laugh was low, his voice quiet. "Do you require water?"

"I had some, but thank you, Solas. You're very..." Her thick tongue struggled to find the word she was searching for. "Beautiful."

"I'm pleased to hear you think so."

"I think you're beautiful too, Chuckles," came Varric's equally inebriated mutter.

"You are not without your own charms, Master Tethras."

Whether it was the liquor or the long days of travel, Lavellan drifted off to sleep a short time later. When she awoke in the early hours of the morning, her mouth dry and gritty and badly in need of a drink, it was with his hand in hers.

 

 

 


End file.
